Mindful monotony

I like the sound of my dogs sleeping at the foot of my bed. I like to drink coffee in the dim quiet of the early morning. I like when my kitchen has an overflowing fruit bowl and fresh flowers in a vase. When I don't know what to do, I start by washing my car or emptying the dishwasher. I like to pack certain snacks when I travel on the airplane. I get a bizarre thrill out of organizing personal items in a new purse or travel bag. I have to clear my desk of all clutter, bills, and mail before I can begin to think creatively about writing. I have to make my bed or else it's less appealing at nightfall. I eat the same thing before I run a race. I lay out my clothes (including potential layers), shoes, socks, hat, ponytail holder, number and safety pins the night before. I prefer to be sweaty prior to taking a shower. I only attempt to solve problems in the morning; at night it's best to sleep on it.

There was a time in my life, not too long ago really, when running was far from a habit, even far from the perimiter of my comfort zone. Now it is as much a part of my life and my routine as brushing my teeth or getting the mail. This week Katie sent us a quote (that we had plenty of time to ponder over our 20 miles together on Saturday morning) by Kent Nerburn that sums up this phonomenon perfectly:

Ritual is routine infused with mindfulness.It is a habit made holy.

I typically don't like it when someone says something much better than I can (kidding, ok, sort of), but I have to hand it to Kent, that is SPOT ON. I mean, think about where you typically sit to pull on your shoes and tie the laces. One one hand, lacing up your running shoes could be considered a mindless motion. On the other hand, when a habit has been made holy, there is something bigger associated with a simple act. The lacing up of running shoes could be an act of sweet anticipation. It could be a transition time between 'doing for others' and 'taking time to do for yourself.' It could be your personal time off the clock, or your personal time on the clock. Either way, for those of us who share this passion, running is more a ritual than it is a routine.

Thinking about our routines in this way can open up our understanding to the magic of the mundane. For example, packing my kids' lunch boxes can either be a hasty and uninspired stuffing, much the way a dealer deals cards, (one for you, one for you, one for you...)or I can think about my sweet little people taking their seats in the bustling cafeteria and having a little taste of home in the middle of their day. We have the option to either eye-roll certain tasks and errands (folding laundry, shoveling snow off the walk, getting groceries, or picking up drycleaning) or we can choose to turn commonplace things into an act of love. The difference is in our attitude, in whether or not we choose to be inspired. Is something representative of the oppression of responsibility or is it buoyed by the big-picture honor of the assignment?

If the habit of running has become holy, what other areas of our lives are in need of inspiration? Where can we, as Mother Teresa so aptly said, do 'small things with great love?' Where can we infuse mindfulness into our monotony? Next time you lace up your shoes and head out the door, try to think of one way this week to consecrate the common, to sanctify the standard.

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